


Dust

by sass_bot



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, F/M, Implied Relationships, War, implied solavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 15:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20229871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sass_bot/pseuds/sass_bot
Summary: The Inquisition's forces go head-to-head with Fen'Harel's forces; all the while, Commander Cullen encounters a ghost from his past.[Originally posted on tumblr 10.12.2018]





	Dust

The sky is soot and acid, dropping onto the ground like shattered glass, mixing into the rust and blood that stains the boots of the soldiers. A drum beat plays, grooving and tense, pushing them to the edge and knocking them over, and still they dance, beating steel against steel and brother against brother, their feet like anvils trudging through mud. They breathe in deep the poison in the air, and the taste of iron is so stark on their tongues that they begin to wish they couldn’t breathe at all.

A lion, solitary and proud, roars over the battlefield, feeling the dust blow through his mane as he watches the ebb and flow of the battle, his heart battering harder and harder against his chest with each man who falls; the inquisition’s colors begin to swim with crimson and black. There is no martyrdom here; it is only death. Senseless and without regard for commander or cause.

A nightingale cries out, singing to the beat of the drum, spitting her venom at the wolf’s army, her aim steady and true. Her eyes darken as she watches the soldiers like sands in an hourglass as they slip away into the void, and the irreversibility of time hits her like a cold hand to her throat.

The wolf, cunning and shrewd as he is, hasn’t shown himself yet, and so the Inquisition, careful and calculating, have not unsheathed their blade of fire; but even as she waits, the flames grow angrier and wilder as she watches her kin, fall in her name. But her heart, pure as the soil after the rain, cannot fathom ever damning him—even now, his heart must still remember where the light is—even now, he can’t have forgotten his name.

The wolf’s commander, a dread knight in armor of ebony and gold, leaps into the fray, like a prowling predator, wearing the face of a hungry wolf with tainted eyes as they survey the battle. They slip in and out of the Fade like a wisp on the wind, effortlessly cutting through the Inquisitor’s troops like butter. An arrow phases through their body and their golden eyes meet the nightingale’s blue.

With strengthened resolve, the lion pads through the troops, knowing his target—a commander for a commander. He notes the way the dread knight passes as a breeze right towards him, and his eyes for a moment fixate on their legs, which seem to blend from flesh to pillars solid light and lyrium that bend and adapt to their nimble dance.

He can’t help but draw comparison between the wispy dread knight and the young girl with her apprentice robes hiked up to her thighs sitting across the chessboard, thinking deeply of her next move. He’d watch coiled ringlets slip out of her messy braid and into her eyes and she’d say that she ought to cut it all off. He’s always beaten her at chess, but this isn’t the same mind he’s faced off against before—it’s familiar, and they’ve outgrown this heartless waltz.

Beneath her mask he sees the beginnings of a smirk, as she flicks her greatsword as if it were no larger than a twig, causing the earth to quake beneath the blow. When she raises it, the mud streams down, black with blood.

He can’t think when he’s around her; he’s never been able to think when he was around her. His mind is haunted by the sound of bare feet on the chantry floor, candlelight illuminating the edges of her hair, the dust in the library, voices echoing harshly against stone, her fist closing around a pawn, so happy to have captured it…

She misses again—not on purpose, of course, because she’s never been the type to let him win. He ponders briefly what it would look like if he just let her do it—soldiers wide eyed and agape as the poacher finally fells the lion and wears his mane over her shoulders like a trophy. He feels the sting of a blade slicing against his leg and leaps back, the uncomfortable sensation of eyes on him—eyes digging nails into his skin—eyes pulling at him in every direction.

The knight—playful, arrogant, hopelessly beautiful—pulls her mask off, and it starts all over again. Amber eyes twinkling in the candlelight—the smile playing at her lips—wet hair slipping into her eyes—hair on the pillowcase—hands on his skin—his finger tracing the freckles on her cheeks—

And he tastes blood. Her neck bursts open, struck by an arrow that just narrowly misses him; its target was her. And she flickers for the first time. She flickers like a ghost who’s forgotten how to exist. Her face pales and she steps away. _This isn’t fair. You cheated._That must be what she’s thinking—what she says every time she loses, laughing and demanding a do-over.

It takes him a moment to realize that she’s escaping, fluttering away like a butterfly with torn wings. So he gives chase to the hut in Amaranthine by the shore and the modest library with all her favorite books—to the little feet running through the marketplace and her arm tucked safely in his—to children of her children that she can’t help but adore—to the love that was taken from her before she even knew how to comprehend it…

The vibrant colors of battle leave him, and he finds himself alone, in a grey and desolate corner, where the valley dips into what must have once been a lake but now contains mud, weeds and fog that slips beneath his clothes with cold fingers that stroke up and down his skin.

The eluvian is unmistakable, leaning against a tree trunk, the wooden branches gnarled around its frame. He presses his fingers into the bloody cracks in the glass, to no avail. His bones grow too heavy to carry and for all his training and strength, he can’t stand up, resolving himself to kneeling before the mirror as though it were an altar to a future that turned to dust before his eyes.

A timid warrior steps through the fog behind him and he vaguely hears, “Commander Cullen? The Inquisitor… The Inquisitor is dead.”

“And the Dread Wolf.”

“Dead as well, Commander.” The girl hesitates before adding. “Sister Nightingale would like to know what became of the Hero of Ferelden.”

Cullen’s head turns with great effort, as though he were made of stone. Try as he might, he can’t bring up the images anymore; not the mischievous circle apprentice nor the cocky hero, nor the hut on the beach and the two little half-elves, half-her and half-him. He can scarcely even remember his own name, but he can remember the reality that has soaked him just as thoroughly as the rain pouring from the sky. “She’s gone. Dead.”

“Then we’ve won, ser?”

“Nobody has won,” he tells her, finding the might to pull his bones upright. And he leaves the swamp and the blood on mirror with the smear the size of his hand, leaving his shadow in the cracks to continue searching for what he’s always wanted but could never have.


End file.
